


Parousia

by ButterflyGhost



Series: due South Wizard!Verse [17]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, due South
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-13
Updated: 2012-06-13
Packaged: 2017-11-07 16:04:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/432964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ButterflyGhost/pseuds/ButterflyGhost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fraser receives his annual Christmas visit from a family member.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parousia

The first time I saw the ghost I didn't recognise him. Of course, I only saw him briefly, and from the back. The second time, he was leaving the Constable's office. The Constable was not in, however. The ghost saw me notice him, and smiled. Then, I recognised him from the photographs. Even if the case hadn't been all over the muggle news for months I would have known who he was from his file. The legendary Auror, Bob Fraser. 

It didn't seem appropriate to speak first, this being after all the ghost of a superior officer, both as an Auror and a Mountie. I fell into parade rest, in case the Sergeant decided to speak, but he merely nodded, and walked past, fading.

I wondered if his son had seen him yet. It was a hard question to ask. Perhaps Ray would know. He had developed a rapport with Constable Fraser, after all... Benny, as he called him. I smiled. I hadn't yet attained to such familiarity with Ray's friend, but I liked him. Was fond of him even. He had said nothing to me about his father's haunting, but it was quite a personal thing. Should I ask Ray? Perhaps not. It was none of my business, after all.

After that, I saw the ghost around, a few times, but although he acknowledged me by nod or gesture, he never spoke. I wondered why he was here.  
…  
…

Christmas was approaching, and I was feeling guilty. Maggie's baby was going to be born any day now, and I had arranged no annual leave. It dawned on me that I was, as I had always feared I might, beginning to behave like my father, burying myself in work rather than making time for family. Really, it was shameful. I had made a present for the baby at least, having put some thought into it over recent months. A Moses basket, with lullabies woven through with the wicker, moss and leaves, all of them enchanted so that they would not fade or lose their comfort and elasticity. My Grandmother had made me such a basket, but I don't know what happened to it. A lot of things were lost in the war.

War. It was coming, whether we wanted it to or not. There was that sense of hushed calm that precedes a storm. A global intake of breath. It bothered me. The violence at the Quidditch world cup should have caused international alarm, and since then the news from England had only got worse... yet a pall of silence seemed to have fallen over the nations. There had been deaths, and dark magics, and... Voldemort had returned. Good Lord...

Voldemort had returned, and the whole magical community was behaving as though it didn't matter. As though the violence and terror might be contained in England, and not bleed out to corrupt the rest of the world, muggle and magical alike. Appeasement, I thought. It hadn't worked the first time... why would they think it might work now? It beggared belief that people were turning a blind eye. Constable Turnbull, Ray Vecchio and myself had noticed a steady increase in anti muggle violence and we couldn't understand how the Ministries of Magic in our respective countries could possibly play down the current political situation. 

Christmas, somehow, felt like a distraction. 

I thought of Victoria, as I always did at this time of year, in prison, where Christmas would be just another day crushed out of shape by the Dementors. Again, guilt twisted in my gut. I had yet to see her, though the Ministry assured me that my visitor's request would be approved some time soon. They had been assuring me of that for months. I wondered what she must be thinking, alone, with no way of knowing why I had abandoned her. I wondered what I would say, how I could possibly excuse myself, when I saw her next. 

“Constable Fraser.”

I looked up from the paper work, at which I had been staring blindly, and saw Inspector Thatcher in the doorway. Good Lord, I really should pay more attention to that woman's comings and goings. Thoughts of Victoria were becoming increasingly distracting as her sentence neared completion. I shouldn't let things slip like this... How long had the Inspector been standing there, watching me stare blankly at the desk? 

“Sir,” I stood to attention, and waited to hear what she had to say to me this time.

“I'm not disturbing you, Constable?”

“No, Sir.”

“Because I would hate to think I was interrupting something important.”

Oh dear. I should set up a proximity alarm, I thought briefly. That woman sees everything.

Well, not everything. She didn't see much in the way of magic, and hadn't had to be obliviated yet, unlike my Ray Kowalski. (And I felt so guilty about his obliviations, as though each time a piece of his life was being stolen... which, of course, it was.) 

“No, Sir, I was just thinking about something.”

“Good. I'm glad to hear that you think, Constable.” She held me in her sharp gaze, as though trying to read my mind, then released me. “As you know, we have the last details of the ambassadorial Christmas reception to be organised. I wanted you to go over the final seating arrangements with Constable Turnbull, and to make sure that the guests are placed in such a way that no political arguments ensue. You know how these things go when the wine has been flowing.”

“Yes, Sir.” There had been a particularly messy encounter at the last reception, when the Dutch minister of culture found himself sitting next to his Italian counterpart. The two men had sharply differing views on their nations' contributions to global culture. The Italian, in his cups, declared that, while his nation had given the world opera, the Colosseum and Leonardo Da Vinci, all the Dutch had contributed was cheese, tulips, and a good example as to the organisation of canal systems and cycle paths. 

If only magical politics could be as easily resolved as rearranging the place cards.

“She's a piece of work,” came my father's voice, as the Inspector made her departure.

“She certainly can be a challenge to...” 

Oh.

I turned, and looked over my shoulder. “Hello, Dad,” I said, cautiously. “How are you?”

“I'm dead, Son. Other than that, do you mean?”

“No. That's what I was asking.” 

“Well, that's good,” he replied. “Never be ashamed to ask a stupid question. I taught you that, didn't I?”

“Not specifically, no.”

“Well, no time like the present. So, fill me in. What's been on your mind?”

“Who says anything's on my mind?”

“Something must be bothering you, or I wouldn't be here.”

“Ah, so it's my fault is it?”

“Oh, don't start that, Son. It's nobody's fault. It just is.”

I felt... I felt disappointed in him. In myself. What had I done wrong? I had solved his murder... why had he chosen to remain? I had expected better of him. There is always something shameful about a ghost who doesn't move on. I remembered Uncle Tiberius, bothering us all for years. And yet...

It was Christmas. Time for our annual visit. Shakespeare's opinions on the matter notwithstanding, it seemed as though I should have been expecting him.

“So, why did you choose this particular moment to reappear,” I asked, wondering if the season did indeed have something to do with it, or if it was just a coincidence. 

“Well, obviously you need my help, and it's my fault. If I'd better prepared you, you wouldn't be floundering around like this.”

“Well, I'm not completely in over my head. I mean...”

“Don't try to make me feel better, Son. I failed you as a father. I'm going to make that up to you.”

“How exactly do you propose to do that, Dad? I mean it's not as though you...”

There was a knock on the door. I jumped. Please not Thatcher. This time I would have no choice but to obliviate her...

“Constable Fraser?” Turnbull's smiling face appeared around the door. Oh, thank God... Obviously here to talk about the Inspector's blessed seating plans.

Turnbull paused. “Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realise you had a guest.”

“My father. Dad, this is Constable Turnbull...”

“I know,” he said, “we've met. Very personable young man, if I may say so.”

“Thank you,” Turnbull looked surprised, and maybe a little flattered by my father's compliment. It irritated me. My father had revealed himself to Turnbull before me?

“You knew my father was haunting these corridors, and you didn't think to say anything?”

Turnbull looked suitably startled by my rudeness, one eyebrow raising. I was startled myself. After a moment, he said, carefully, “I thought that it wasn't my place to intrude in a family matter. And... I assumed that you knew.”

“It's all right.” I sighed, grateful that Turnbull wasn't the sort of man to hold a grudge. “I'm sorry... I shouldn't have snapped at you.”

“Well, it's not everyday your old man comes to visit,” Dad said cheerfully, sitting on my desk and making himself comfortable. “So, since I'm here, why don't you boys fill me in? I hear there's a war on.”

Turnbull and I exchanged a look, and came to a joint decision. He stepped into my office, and put up careful wards against any eavesdroppers. My father might be dead, but he was an ally. And we needed an ally now.

“Okay,” I said, looking to Turnbull for support. “The situation is this...”

And as we spoke, I felt a surge of relief. The world might be spinning on its axis into darkness, war might be coming, and the nations might be blind... but it felt good to see my father again, even if it was just his ghost.


End file.
